


Spend the Rest of Your Days Rockin' Out (Just For the Dead)

by SpaceAce165



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Killjoy Slang, LET ME LIVE IN THIS WORLD PLEASE, M/M, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Zones Slang (Fabulous Killjoys), the fab four are alive, the original characters are me and my friends, uh basically a self insert, we drive a jeep in the desert and took up the Diner after the Fab Four were dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29131698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceAce165/pseuds/SpaceAce165
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)





	1. Chapter 1

Poison wakes up with the Girl’s scream resonating inside their head.

They know Kobra’s awake now, too, when he whispers, “You okay?” down to the bunk below.

Poison takes a deep breath before replying. “I’m fine, Mikes. Just another nightmare.”

Kobra’s quiet for a moment. “She’s alright. Jet said Dr. Death got her.”

“I know.” They roll over onto their side.

They do. It’s not like they don’t trust the rest of their crew, but they’ve never been one for believing in something they can’t see. The Phoenix Witch was one thing, but the Girl’s life or death? It’s been a year since her rescue from BLI and they’re still panicking about whether or not she’s alive.

They toss and turn in the bunk for another hour, then finally drift off to sleep.

FOUR YEARS LATER

Every night for the past five years, the Fab Four have recounted every memory they have. The number of memories has decreased in clarity and existence, but they remember far more than any other Dracs-in-training. That _is_ what they are, technically.

After they got ghosted, they were zipped into body bags and stored until BLI figured out what to do with them.

What they decided was debatably worse than death.

Constant brainwashing, mindwipes every other day. You learn how to shoot, while being degraded down to a machine if you get too “ _human_ ” in your stance. You learn that you’re disposable, far more so than any other unit of the company.

The four have been on several dozen missions by now, and every time, they miss every shot. Kobra calls it “stormtrooping.”

They’re relaxing in their room during the free period when Poison hears ray blasts.

_ZZZT!_

The hair stands up on their neck. That’s not a BLI gun.

“Guys, you hear that?” Poison puts down their cards from the game with Jet, creeping to the door.

“Hear what?” Ghoul asks, disinterested.

_ZZZT! ZZZT ZZZT!_

“Shit, are those ‘joy guns?” Jet stands, joining Poison at the door.

“I’m going out there. See who it is.” Poison grabs their gun.

Jet counts down and Poison ducks out of the room, every sense on high alert. They pray they’re ‘joys who’ll recognize them and not shoot them dead on-sight. They hear a few pair of running footsteps and shouting from the floor below, and they take the stairs down to the next level.

They see a flash of fire-red hair—poison red, they laugh—run down the hall, and they step out of the stairwell to get the attention of the person. Several more shots land down the hall opposite the way the killjoy ran. More running footsteps come racing after the first, and they step out from their cover (with their hands up—which is stupid, in retrospect, because ‘joys are almost always “shoot first, ask questions later”).

They get three colorful ray guns in their face.

The skinny boy with blue hair shouts past him. “Hey, Toad! Get back here!”

Footsteps run up behind them and they reach for the gun they shoved in their waistband, turning their head to see behind themself.

“I don’t think so.” The short boy with sharp, winged eyeliner steps closer, holding his gun between Poison’s eyes. Their hands go back up. _Don’t fuck with ‘joys, Poison. BLI will never learn, but you should know better._

“Okay, okay. Who are you guys?”

The person behind Poison steps around. “We’re the Dukes. We’re here to get the Fabulous Four back to the desert, where they belong.” They’ve got shoulder-length wavy hair, dyed bright poison red, their face hidden by a yellow mask with navy lightning bolt. They’re wearing black skinny jeans, leather boots, and a white muscle shirt with a red and yellow jacket tied around their waist. “Where you from, Drac?”

“Destroya, kids. I guess BLI finally took down our ‘Wanted’ posters. I’m Party Poison. The others are upstairs.”

Eyeliner Boy falters, almost lowering his gun. “Toad, how do we know if he’s top left?”

Poison rolls their eyes. “It’s they. And Witch, do you want to dissect us to make sure? I’ll take you up to meet the guys, then we’ll get the fuck outta here.”

Toad rolls their eyes. “Just shiny. Angel, stay on them. Crow, Dime, c’mere.” The three joys walk a few feet away to discuss Poison’s fate, they suppose.

They look back to Eyeliner Boy—Angel—and ask, “So... you come here often?”

He glares. “Shut the hell up, pig.”

Something catches Poison’s eye from the edge of their vision. There, around the corner—black Drac-mask hair. They’re about to get charged.

They disarm Angel, then fire at the corner. They hear a yelp, and step in front of the kids to keep the corner in view. “Up the stairs, now!”

Another Drac returns fire, and Poison never thought they’d be in another firefight _inside_ BLI headquarters.

Shots to the chest take the second and third Dracs down, and Poison follows the kids upstairs. “Destroya, you believe me now? We’re the third door on the left.”

The four look suspicious but move to the ex-Killjoys’ door. Poison knocks a pattern [pound-pound-smack] and Jet opens the door.

“Who the fuck are they?”

“Teenage killjoys, apparently here to rescue us.” They hand the colored gun back to its owner, then pulls their own out and drops it on the table. “Dracs are after us, probably some Crows, too.”

Jet Star looks concerned, Ghoul looks surprised, and Kobra looks just as expressionless as he did before Poison left.

“When the hell else are we going to get out? We’ve been waiting for someone to attack headquarters so we could escape anyway! You can’t tell me you want to fucking stay?!”

“Jesus Christ, Poison. Everyone knew we got fucking dusted. We’ve got the goddamn scars to prove it. I’m ready to get the fuck out of here. Sand pups don’t belong in the city.” Ghoul hops off his bunk and rummages through the closet. “Sweatpants and sneakers, kids! We’re blowing this popsicle stand.”

They’re all wearing their light grey sweatpants already, and Fun Ghoul starts hurling shoes at each of the guys while the younger joys cover their heads from possible blunt-force trauma via sneaker.

“Holy fuck, they’re literal children,” Crow mumbles, dodging a sneaker thrown at Kobra.

“Are you surprised?” Toad raises their eyebrow at Crow, handing the shoe to its owner.

“Not really, but for the guys we have action figures of? Damn.” Crow shakes his head.

“Let’s just go already,” Kobra grumbles, pulling on his shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as all eight ‘Joys are out the door, the alarm begins blaring.

“Fuck,” Poison hisses. The doors lining the hallway spill open with Dracs, and the stairway fills with stomping steps towards them. “Four in front, kids in back! Two on each rear side, clear the hall!”

“Jesus fuck, that’s a lotta pigs,” Angel says, taking the right side with Toad.

“Don’t get shot, for Witch’s sake,” Toad chuckles back.

The Fab Four take down wave after wave of Dracs in front of them, and the younger ‘joys clear rooms on either side of the hall.

Then they approach the stairs.

There’s yelling at the base, and they don’t have much time.

“How much powder you got on you?” Ghoul asks the teens.

Toad is the first to reply. “Couple smoke bombs, flash grenades. Couldn’t bring the rocket launcher, to Crow’s dismay.”

Jet Star looks shocked. “Destroya, you got through here with just your guns?”

“Yeah, we’re desert-raised badasses who’ve been training for, like, a month. What should we toast the fuckers with?” Dime asks, tossing her hot pink hair out of her eyes.

“Smoke first. Mask up, the toss in a flash bomb. It’ll light up the smoke and disorient them even more.”

Toad grins like a madman. “Fun Ghoul, master of fucking shit up. Let’s do it.”

  
  


“Go, go, go! We’ve got pigs hot on our tails, let’s move it!” Toad shouts, shooting Dracs behind them left and right.

They hear one of the guys behind ask which car, and almost cackle when Angel shouts, “The one that belongs in the desert, shithead!”

They turn back for half a second to head the Widow before a _ZAP!_ makes their leg go completely numb. They lose their balance and crash to the ground, blaster skittering across the asphalt and gravel embedding into their palms. “Shit!”

“Toad?!” Angel yells.

They groan. They’re shocked that one of those pigs even hit them, even if it was just their leg. “It’s just my leg, but I can’t fucking walk. Dime, you’re the getaway driver.” Angel scrambles the few yards to help his datefriend, and they haul ass back to the Widow, jumping into the back.

“Fuckin’ Witch, that hurt. Where’s the first aid...” Toad rummages around before Angel grabs it from the side. “Thanks, bab. Get ‘er moving, Dime.”

Dime starts the Wrangler up, and they start speeding through the city streets toward the outer gates. All goes smoothly until a swarm of dozens of pigs start firing at the Widow and ‘joys inside from the streets.

“Dammit! Guys, you’ve gotta rain fire back on ‘em, I gotta fix Ghoul’s hand. Dime, don’t stop under any circumstances!” Toad hears her shift into fourth and floor the gas.

“Jesus Christ, how did you even get into the city in this thing?!” Jet shouts from the shotgun seat.

“Back roads. Keep us movin’, Dime!” Toad yells in response. In spite of the graze on their leg, they’re currently treating Fun Ghoul’s fucked-up hand. “You’re a goddamn fucking idiot, y’know that? I’ve known you for half an hour and you bust your fucking hand punching a pig.”

“Fuck you,” Ghoul replies (with only a little heat). He winces as Toad feels his hand. His pinky knuckle is already red, and he’s had enough boxer’s fractures to know what this is. It always hurts like a bitch realigning it, anyways. He grabs for Poison’s hand, who lends it to him like he knew they would. Toad realigns it and starts wrapping it with an elastic bandage. They grab out the medical tape and bend his fingers forward and wrist back to tape it in place, wrapping a shorter piece around the ends to keep them there.

“I have better stuff back at the base, I’ll get you better taken care of then. How we lookin’, Dime?” they ask the driver while starting to tend to their calf wound.

“Almost out, we’re just getting to the outer sector. Zone 1, here we come.”


End file.
